He stood near enough that Abigail could see the flecks of gold in his blue irises. Some rare breeds of cat had eyes like that, azure intensity gilded with promises of lethal force.

“What has your right hand to do with—?”

“I give up.” He appeared to address his surrender to the dragon, and then he wrapped an arm around Abigail’s waist and kissed her.

Stephen had tried the opera, and he’d tried locking himself in his idea room. He’d had a few tots of brandy, though inebriation and unsteady pins were a foolish combination, so the brandy had been of limited use.

He’d finally repaired to his study to partake of the strongest soporific he possessed, the steward’s monthly reports from the Yorkshire estate. Even that drastic measure hadn’t chased away memories of kissing Abigail Abbott.

She took hold of a fellow and kissed him into submission, and the novelty of that, the sheer relief of being confidently handled, had captured Stephen’s imagination as no mechanical puzzle ever had.

Self-gratification hadn’t eased his desire one iota, and kissing Abigail again was rank folly, but she was soon to be ensconced in the Wentworth family fortress, where folly could not intrude. Surely a farewell kiss was permissible?

“The scent of you,” she murmured, wrapping Stephen in her arms. “You drive me witless. I can’t bear—” She fused her mouth to his, and all over again, Stephen was awash in desire and madness.

“I dreamed of you,” he said. “You breathed on me and I went up in flames.” In the last reaches of his thinking mind, where reason despaired and mischief rejoiced, Stephen knew that nothing could come of his attraction to Abigail Abbott.

When he’d spiked Stapleton’s guns, Abigail would go back to her inquiry business and Stephen would resume—

She ran her hand over his falls, her touch every bit as sure as it had been on his stupid knee. An even more brainless part of him leaped at the pleasure of her caress.

“You are so wonderfully bold,” he whispered, “and I am so hopelessly willing. I can keep you safe from Stapleton, and Quinn and Jane will keep you safe from me.”

Abigail subsided against him, though gently. Stephen had kept hold of his cane, Abigail had kept hold of him. The whole kiss had progressed without Stephen once worrying about his balance.

“You might have been kissing me to distract me,” she said, “but you weren’t.”

Hence her bold caress. Ah, well. “Distract you from what?”

“Whatever objective you are truly intent on. You have guile too, my lord.”

He could have stood there embracing her until the seasons changed, except that the sofa was calling to him, as was the temptation to lock the door.

“Perhaps you are distracting me, Abigail.”

She pulled back to study him. “Your kisses are enticing. When you call me Abigail, in that slightly chiding, slightly confiding tone, I lose a piece of my self-control. Nobody addresses me by my given name. I am Miss Abbott, even to my companion.”